Oh God, Yes
by Heiress7Muzzy
Summary: John's enthusiasm in situations to shag in.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Established relationship between them. Do try to avoid killing me for my horrible writing; Sherlock wouldn't approve of the massive pile-up at the morgue.

It had been a most trying day for John, who was currently trudging wearily up the significant seventeen steps to 221B. There'd been a seemingly endless stream of patients, a teetering pile of paperwork, and no milk at Tesco's.

In other words, he was not in the mood for Sherlock's shit.

"Ah, good, you're back," the (consulting) detective acknowledged, curled up on the sofa with John's laptop in front of him, "Tea would be nice."

John's glare was lost on Sherlock (naturally), who simply held out a hand. "You can make your own damn tea," he snapped, flopping gracelessly onto the armchair and switching on the telly.

His refusal to make tea earned him a dramatic gasp and pout, before Sherlock set aside John's laptop and turned to face him.

"Bad day?"

John gave a terse nod.

"Want to shag?"

John glanced over at Sherlock, unable to resist grinning.

"Oh God, yes."

xxx x xxx

A domestic was being had in flat 221B.

Sherlock and John had just returned from a case, having put off making their statements at NSY the following day. John was rather pissed at Sherlock for throwing himself in front of the killer's gun, which had been aimed at John's heart. (Fortunately Lestrade and his bunch of somewhat competent monkeys had arrived on the scene in time to prevent any casualties.)

"_What_ were you thinking, Sherlock?" John almost yelled, fisting his hands in the lapels of Sherlock's dressing gown, resisting the urge to shake some sense into the man.

"I wasn't," came the evasive reply. Sherlock glanced up at John from his elegant sprawl on the sofa, "I wasn't _thinking_, John."

"Promise me you won't keep throwing your life away," John whispered, "Promise me you won't act like it's worth nothing, Sherlock."

"Compared to yours it is," mumbled Sherlock, not meeting John's eyes.

A moment's silence.

Then –

"Sex now?"

"Oh God, yes."

xxx x xxx

"You're having me on," John gasped, backing up an infinitesimal amount, "How many of you are in on this?"

DI Lestrade held up his hands in a placating manner, "We're not taking the piss, John. We really do have a pool on whether or not you two are shagging."

"What did you bet?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes at Lestrade, who coughed awkwardly.

Sherlock eyed him once more before declaring, "You bet that we've been shagging since the moment we met, didn't you?"

Lestrade's shifty gaze and impromptu coughing fit confirmed that.

"Donovan and Anderson bet _heavily_ on our relationship being platonic," Sherlock stage-whispered to John, "And so far their winnings are growing."

John raised his eyebrows, "So I take it we ought to remedy the situation?"

Sherlock smirked, pulling John towards him by the hand.

"Up for some PDA?"

"Oh God, yes."


	2. Chapter 2

"No, you'll just have to find another morgue for the autopsies, we're actually running out of space here at St. –" Molly broke off, covering her Blackberry with one hand, only belatedly noticing Sherlock and John's entrance to the lab.

To be fair, they hadn't really been discreet, having barged raucously in, hanging on to each other and giggling like two very drunk teenagers. She had only herself to blame for the momentary lapse of concentration.

"Oh, hello – ha – Molly," John gasped, bent double and holding on to his stomach as though scared his internal organs would fall out, "Don't – ha – mind us, we're just – heh – retrieving Sherlock's riding – ha – crop."

"Yes, have you seen it?" Sherlock asked placidly, having schooled his expression into something that wasn't the manic grin of a crazed loon, "I'm positive I left it here."

"Just how drunk are you two?" Molly asked, raising an amused eyebrow.

"We're not – ha – we're not drunk," John argued, now swatting ineffectually at an imaginary fly.

"I concur!" Sherlock echoed, raising his hand as if to toast.

Despite being impressed that John had managed to get Sherlock even slightly inebriated, as well as amused at their drunken antics, Molly really was having a busy night.

"The riding crop's probably in the morgue," she told them, before hastily returning to the neglected phone conversation.

xxx x xxx

In retrospect, perhaps they shouldn't have gotten this bloody pissed, John thought, swaying as the floor lurched beneath him and the corridor leading to the morgue had never seemed this far away.

"Come along, John, we haven't got all day," Sherlock said, his speech hardly affected even with his alcohol-addled state. _Posh git_.

John allowed himself to be pulled by the hand towards the morgue, managing to only trip over his feet a dozen times.

They made it within ten minutes; an impressive feat, in John's opinion.

Now that they were there, though, John couldn't for the life of him remember the reason they'd come here in the first place. He cursed all the alcohol in the world before apologizing, since he didn't actually want to make an enemy of Alcohol.

"Sh'lock? Why're we here?" he mumbled, his tongue feeling rather slow and heavy, "Why'd we come here?"

"Where's here? Where are we, John?" a rather confused Sherlock replied, seeming (for once) more lost than he was.

"I dunno; the morgue, I s'ppose," said John, "cause dead bodies are on tables."

"Oooh, corpses!" Sherlock exclaimed with all the inflection of a five-year-old, and proceeded to leap (rather gracefully, John admitted ruefully) onto one of the examination tables.

John sighed, knowing there would be no tearing his boyfriend away from the cadavers for awhile at least, and slid to the floor, settling to watch Sherlock work.

xxx x xxx

"He was piss drunk, had no equipment other than his bloody brain, and he outsmarted our entire forensics team!" DI Lestrade ranted, working himself into a right strop before coming to a stop mid-pace and whirling furiously on his men, "You are the most incompetent morons I have ever had the displeasure of commanding!"

"Did you get it?" Sherlock hissed into John's ear, peering over his shoulder at the camera phone pointed at Lestrade.

"Yes, yes, it's all captured on film," John smirked, handing Sherlock back his Blackberry, "For your future perusal and enjoyment."

Sherlock grinned back, still not entirely sober, "Well, today is note-worthy, I suppose. First time I solved a case without even knowing it existed."

"Not to mention you were so drunk you couldn't tell Donovan apart from Anderson," John helpfully supplied, in case Sherlock's already inflated ego got too large a boost.

"You have to admit they're slightly hard to differentiate," frowned Sherlock, "I mean, they're both annoying twats and they both hate me. How is one supposed to tell one from the other?"

John let out a helpless giggle (still not entirely sober, then), which set Sherlock off again, the two of them leaving St. Bart's doubled over and practically choking with laughter.

xxx x xxx

Much later, when they'd managed to take a cab home, unlock the front door and traverse the tenuous distance of seventeen steps to their flat, John and Sherlock were still laughing (which was probably good for burning the extra calories John had put on since his army days were over, but was probably not so conducive for the bordering-on-too-thin detective).

They made it as far as the sofa before collapsing onto it, a heap of tangled limbs, with Sherlock's bony elbows and hips and knees poking John in a manner he should have found uncomfortable, but wasn't.

A rather companionable silence fell over them once their giggles had finally managed to subside, cocooning them in their own world of bliss, the troubles of reality held at bay for the moment by inebriation and each other.

"We should sleep," John murmured, nestling closer to Sherlock, resting his head on his chest and listening to the steady _thudthudthud_ of the detective's heart, made faster with adrenaline and lust.

"Yes, indeed we should," came Sherlock's reply, in his best _I'm only doing this to humour you_ voice.

John frowned, resting his head on one elbow and scrutinizing Sherlock's inscrutable expression, "What do you propose we do then, Mr. Contradictory?"

Sherlock pretended to think with exaggeration, tapping one long finger against his chin and turning his _I'm only doing this to humour you_ face on.

"Oh, let's see, we've just solved an extremely difficult case, gotten ourselves drunk, solved _another _case, and witnessed Lestrade giving those forensic imbeciles the dressing down they deserve," said Sherlock in one breath, "I'd say this is a night worth commemorating, don't you?"

John blinked, his alcohol-and-lust-and-Sherlock-addled brain refusing to cooperate enough to translate that bit of Sherlockspeak into understandable English.

Sherlock heaved a long-suffering, _why must I put up with idiots_ sigh, and did the translating for him.

"Celebratory shag?"

_That_ John found easily comprehensible.

"Oh God, yes."

A/N: Hope this isn't too – uh – boring or anything. Your reviews are my 7% solution (:


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh, dear me, he is quite – vicious, isn't he?" Mrs Hudson murmured, smoothing over the folds of her dress with nervously fluttering hands.

"It appears so," John remarked dryly, looking at the chaos that reigned the flat.

Science notes and books were strewn about the floor haphazardly, broken flasks and pipettes laying around created a positive minefield of glass shards, and there were more bullet holes in the wall than John cared to count.

In the midst of it all was Sherlock, calmly playing Bach (or perhaps it was Tchaikovsky, John really couldn't be arsed to find out). All he knew was that a disagreement over who had grocery-shopping responsibility was no excuse for a temper tantrum of this magnitude (it looked like John's laptop had been caught in the crossfire as well; the cover was singed and appeared to be smoking).

John closed his eyes and counted backwards from ten as the violin continued to warble. It didn't work. He opened his eyes, feeling, if possible, even angrier than before. _Bastard_.

"Count in another language," his infuriating boyfriend said, with his eyes closed and his back to them, still playing classical music, "It helps center your being since your concentration level is heightened when the language is one you are less familiar with."

"Yes, alright, thank you," John muttered, taking a deep breath and counting backwards from ten in Spanish before letting it out. It worked. _Bastard_. He felt calmer, though no less irritated at his flatmate.

"Very good, John," Sherlock said warmly (or at least, not icily, so it counted as something), setting his violin down and twirling dramatically to face him and Mrs Hudson, "Maybe _now_ you'll listen to reason; haven't I told you before how forming conclusions without relevant data would be bound to get you in trouble?"

John let out an inarticulate growl in response, "I swear, if you don't explain _this instant_ why the flat looks like it's been bombed I will have to kill you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, "Don't be so pedestrian, John. And don't assume this was all me," he flapped an arm at the chaotic mess of the room, "there was a break-in while you were out; I prevented them from taking anything of value. You are, of course, most welcome."

"Oh," said John, and blinked, "Sorry, I didn't – I – uh – well, thank you."

"It's nice to know my efforts in making sure your possessions weren't stolen are appreciated," the detective muttered, spinning so his blue silk dressing gown flared dramatically out and then proceeded to (there was no other word for it) _flounce_ off into the kitchen with the manner of one who has been deeply wounded.

John and Mrs Hudson were left surveying the carnage in relative silence, until she decided to break it with, "I'm not cleaning that up, mind you. I'm not your housekeeper."

"Yes, of course you're not our housekeeper, Mrs Hudson," John parroted, having just noticed a rather important detail in the flat and was having trouble concentrating on her words.

"I'm adding this to your rent, young man," she chided, before turning and going back down the stairs, humming as she went.

John made a vague 'hm' noise of assent, his mind otherwise occupied, and went over to the sofa, on which lay one of his favourite jumpers.

Or what remained of it, anyway.

It had been torn to shreds, and was covered in what looked suspiciously like saliva. It looked like it had been mauled. Viciously. By something that was definitely not a burglar.

Taking personal hygiene into consideration, John put on a pair of Sherlock's latex gloves before picking up the remains of the jumper.

"Sherlock?" he called, holding the item currently covered in a layer of questionable substances away from himself at arm's length, "What happened to my jumper?"

"Your what?" Sherlock replied, not looking up from where he was pouring a test tube of acid into a beaker of – something that was green and giving off a foul stench. The moment the acid came into contact with the solution, the beaker exploded with fanfare (causing Sherlock to dive for the floor and John to leap backwards), littering the kitchen table with solute and broken glass.

"My jumper, _this_ jumper," John clarified, as though the explosion hadn't happened (and was it weird that he'd just come to accept this as part of his daily routine? His psychopath of a boyfriend blowing things up in the kitchen?).

Sherlock's head emerged from under the table. "More sulphuric acid, I think!" he declared with undaunted enthusiasm, his protective goggles slightly askew, and peering around for the clearly labeled bottle of H2S04 with more interest that was strictly necessary.

"_Sherlock_," John said warningly, employing his best _spit it out, Holmes _tone of voice.

The detective hesitated for a moment. "I may have exaggerated when I told you about the break-in," he began.

"Go on," said John, attempting (without success) to mask his rising irritation at the insufferable twat.

"There _was_ a break-in, but it was in the form of a rather large canine," Sherlock continued, and John delighted in the slight bob of his Adam's apple as the detective swallowed reflexively upon sensing John's anger.

"And how exactly did this – _canine_ – get in?"

"I may have let it in –"

"You let a dog trash our flat – _why_?"

"It was for an experiment –"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, how many times do we have to discuss this? _No experiments that involve the flat getting destroyed_, and my jumper too!"

"It was extremely important and vital to the –"

"I couldn't care less if the sky collapsed and the Sun started going around the earth, Sherlock! _My jumper_, my _sodding_ jumper!"

"You do know your sense of fashion is atrocious –"

"That doesn't mean you get to set a dog loose on it!"

"You're turning a rather unattractive shade of red, John, I suggest you –"

"Shut up for once in your life, would you?"

"…"

"What?" John snapped, when it became clear Sherlock was not going to be any more forthcoming than a few awkward throat-clearings.

"I'm sorry about the canine break-in," Sherlock said rather haltingly, as though the apology physically caused him pain, "and your jumper."

John waited, "Anything else?"

"Up for make-up sex?"

"Oh God, yes."


End file.
